I woke up in tears today, not tears of sadness, but tears of joy and it baffled me for a second, the dream was weird, optionally among the weirdest. This brought forth a thought, sometimes the tory is for the reader, sometimes it is for the writer and sometimes it is for the bystander, the trick is not knowing which is which, but for the writer the trick becomes which story is not meant for the writer, most writers have a problem there. It is not a natural one, it is the ability to look into a mirror and see nothing, no one at all. In this case ego gets in the way, it does not matter whether it is intentional or not.
So in the dream it is about an aboriginal who served in WW1, it had to look it up, I never considered or realised that aboriginals were in WW1. This one had a passion for strawberry and pecan cones (I never saw that before), as such it is weird by my nose is filled with the smell of sweet overwhelming strawberries. There is a cart, a girl named Mabel and her sister, they sell the cones and they look lovely, but the aboriginal man has only eyes for the cones, he is addicted to these strawberry pecan cones. And as I watch him, I see the three white buildings. I think that they are hospital buildings, the soldiers are in barracks. I cannot tell where I am, but I noticed the soldier, he is driven by the fear of disappointing his family, his fellow soldiers and it gives him a drive, one I have never seen before. In the onslaught I see him stand firm, the opposition breaking like waves on a rock, he never wavers, fear of failure had turned into determination to stop the enemy, around him are four fallen soldier, not dead but wounded, seriously wounded and they are too poorly to act and to fight, but the aboriginal soldier stands firm, stopping the enemy again and again. For a moment I see the name f his father, but it eludes me now, more details are eluding me. Yet the aboriginal man is never celebrated, I cannot tell whether the officer in the regiment is a bigot or merely in fear that he could never match the determination of this soldier, he get the normal awards like any other soldier, but the overwhelming valour that this man showed is hidden in papers, it seems like someone fears that this shame becomes known. It is much later now, I cannot tell how much later, but the soldier is now an old man, in what seems to be hospital barracks. The man looks at me like he recognises me and I see his eyes look towards me wondering and pondering questions. I look at him, smile, and say “You need not worry, you did so much better than anyone else could have ever achieved, you surpassed them all, you should feel pride. Rest now, your next journey awaits and you never need fear ever again, fear is now afraid of you”, I kiss him on the forehead, I pick him up and walk away carrying the old man. Whilst I did that, the other old men in the room, they get out of bed, stand to attention and salute the empty body in the bed. Doctors and nurses are running into the room, a room that was abandoned by an old soul who was wronged and will be wronged no more.
I still feel the tears well up as I write this, yet I am not sad. Was the story for me, for you the reader or for the people who knowingly and willingly wronged a soldier whose actions made them ashamed of being the broken pieces they were? I honestly cannot tell, but for some reason I need to find out if there is such a thing as strawberry pecan ice cream. I need to taste some of that and summer is drawing to a close.
For now, I have a report to read, the BBC reported on that report less than an hour ago, so I need to get my fingers on it and educate a few people on the stupidity of recklessly blaming people for political points.